


Everybody Laugh

by gentlezombie



Category: Supernatural, Watchmen (2009)
Genre: Burns, Crossover, M/M, Non-Consensual, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-27
Updated: 2009-07-27
Packaged: 2019-09-20 16:45:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17026389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlezombie/pseuds/gentlezombie
Summary: Sam’s captured by a stranger who thinks he and his brother are criminals. Pretty much PWP.





	Everybody Laugh

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spnkink_meme prompt: "The Comedian/captive!Dean (or Sam, or both of them), intensive and brutal interrogation including non-con and torture. Bonus for cigar burns." I had trouble choosing who to torture, because Dean would have been all snarky and defiant and fun to write, but I’m totally in love with hurt!Sam, so…
> 
> Written ages ago, reposted from LJ.

"Wanna tell me why you and your brother drive ’round murderin’ people?”

Sam shakes his head, trying to clear his blurry vision. It’s a mistake, because it only makes his head hurt worse. The movement rattles the chains that secure him to the wall, wrist and ankle.

“Who are you?” he asks, instead of the instinctive what the fuck that is on his tongue. But Sam isn't one to irritate possibly psychotic captors; that’s Dean’s thing.

The polite approach earns him a punch to the stomach.

“Sick fucks like you don’t get to ask me questions,” the man grumbles, amusement in his voice. Sam shudders. The man sounds calm like he was taking a stroll through the park; he’s done this before, is used to this. “You wanna answer me?”

Sam just stares at him, finally able to make out the bizarre appearance of his interrogator. Leather with leather on top of leather, stylized bullet-proof vest, a mask straight out of some costume party. The man’s shorter than Sam but powerful, judging by the bulging muscles in his arms and the blow he just delivered. Sam isn't sure he could take him out in a fight, even if he wasn't tied up and helpless. The man’s got a cigar stuck to the corner of his mouth, casually, as though he doesn't even register its presence anymore.

Something about the man is disturbingly familiar. For a crazy moment Sam almost thinks… But no. Dad doesn't smoke. And yeah, he’s dead too, although in the Winchester reality that doesn't count for much.

“We haven’t murdered anybody,” Sam blurts out. And that’s stupid, because he just admitted that he indeed has a brother. Shit.

“’S what they all say,” the man smirks. “But I’d have done this my way anyway.”

The second punch falls on his kidneys, then a knee to his crotch. Sam slumps down in his chains, his body trying to curl up.

“The name’s the Comedian, by the way,” the man whispers into his ear.

Sam knows Dean would have all kinds of snarky comments in store. Jokes about bad S&M pornos come to mind. But Dean isn't here, thank God for that at least.

The Comedian proceeds to beat him methodically. Sam would like to keep quiet but he can’t. As more and more bruises form on his skin, he starts to lose it, trashing in his chains, cursing at the man. When he spits at the Comedian’s face though, even through the haze of anger and pain, he has for a second the sinking feeling that he just fucked up bad. Because the man just smiles and strokes his cheek almost gently.

He’s maneuvered around and efficiently chained up again, the lock the man has on his arms defeating his attempts at escape. Sam huffs in his chains, now truly afraid. It’s not only fear of pain; it’s the fear of permanent injury that’s making his heart hammer in his throat. He’s used to being young, healthy and strong, and he relies on that. His life as a hunter could be crushed easily, and maybe he didn't always embrace it, but now it’s all he’s got. The elbow that was almost broken in the futile scuffle throbs brightly, stretched out above his head.

He doesn't know how to get out of this; he doesn't know what this guy wants; and he has no idea what he’s going to do next.

Sam manages to glance over his shoulder. The Comedian’s holding a short whip, running his hand lovingly over the leather. Insert something about ugly-ass BDSM cosplay here, Sam’s head provides, but even Dean’s voice can’t cancel the fear that’s cramping his stomach. Cool air hits his back as his shirt is ripped. Sam turns his head, stares resolutely at the wall. 

The first blow falls on the small of his back and it’s like fire poured on his skin. Then another, and another, and Sam tries to think about anything, anything at all other than being here. But he can still hear the sound of the whip crossing the air, not a crack, a much more subtle hiss as the air parts. It makes him anticipate, which is almost worse than the burning pain of contact. Almost.

As the blows start to land over old welts, Sam starts making sounds of his own. He feels blood running down his back and seeping into the waistband of his jeans. He feels skin splitting. And to his humiliation, he sobs and screams his throat out.

“What do you want, what the _fuck_ do you want,” his voice fading, the syllables collapsing into each other. Distantly, he realizes that the blows have ceased, but the burning hasn't. His whole back feels like a great, open, agonizing wound. He flinches away as the Comedian’s calloused fingers trace patterns on the broken skin. Then he hears the click of locks, and he falls on his hands and knees, free from the chains. His arms shake, barely able to hold his weight. And when he looks up, sweat and tears stinging his eyes, the Comedian’s grinning like this is the joke of the century.

“You think I have a reason? I had no idea who you were. Saw you two diggin’ around the crime scene. Didn't know you had killed anybody. But you weren't surprised when I caught you, or called you a murderer. That and the look in your eyes. I knew you for a killer.”

“You didn't know that, not at first,” Sam rasps, denial useless at this point. “Why do you do this, why me?”

The Comedian smiles wider, like the joke’s only getting better. “Why? ‘Cause you looked like someone easy to fuck up.”

Sam didn't know he possessed the strength, but somehow he’s standing and charging at the man, all rational though gone from his mind. But he’s weak and clumsy, and his rage doesn't make up for it. The Comedian dodges him easily and uses the momentum of Sam’s own attack to throw him down. Sam lets out a scream as he lands hard on his bleeding back. He lies there, all strength gone from his body, the momentarily forgotten injuries hurting tenfold.

“You've got spirit, I’ll give you that.” The Comedian’s standing above him now, feet planted on either side of him. He’s kneeling down, fingers working at his zipper, and for a moment Sam’s brain refuses to process what that means. “All the more fun to break.”

Sam starts to struggle again, but the feel of the gun pressing against his temple freezes him.

“Don’t think I wouldn't.” The Comedian gathers Sam’s hands in a one-armed grip above his head, a hold he could easily break if he wasn't so damn weak.

“Fuck you,” Sam hisses, because it’s the only thing he can do. “I’ll bite it off, I swear to God.” He’s not sure if he could do it; he’s never been in a situation like this before, and he doesn't want to die. He’s pretty certain that biting a guy’s dick off will make him pull the trigger.

The Comedian tsks. “Such language.” The fingers of his right hand are playing idly with Sam’s nipples, the left hand still trapping Sam’s wrists in an iron grip. “Let's see,” he says. “Five for cussing at me, five for takin’ the good Lord’s name in vain, don’t you think?”

“Five _what_?” But Sam’s eyes are already inexorably drawn to the cigar the Comedian has plucked from the corner of his mouth, holding it between his middle and index fingers. The glowing, red-hot end of the cigar lands on Sam's chest, just next to his left nipple, and Sam lets out a strangled sob as the Comedian keeps it there, grinds it hard.

“Count them out,” the Comedian tells him. When Sam doesn't answer, eyes squeezed shut tightly but tears escaping down his cheeks nonetheless, the Comedian slaps his face.

“That’s one. And you’ll get two more for every one that you fail to count.” Sam swallows, tastes blood from his broken lip, sees the cruel, cruel smile on the Comedian’s face. He means it.

“One,” Sam whispers.

Another mark is branded on his skin, just above the first. That’s two.

“They used to brand criminals, you know. Back when things were more efficient.” Amused voice lecturing him about history. Sam thinks he might be going crazy. 

Three. Four. The smell of burning flesh is thick in the air and Sam wants to throw up.

Five. Six. Seven. He doesn't recognize his voice anymore. Numbers are alien and abstract, hard to catch and thick on his tongue.

He doesn't remember finishing the count, but he must have, because finally the Comedian stops. He pauses to admire his handiwork, cigar again stuck innocently between his lips. Sam’s sobbing uncontrollably, his abused chest heaving with desperate breaths. There’s a decorative circle of angry, red burn-marks surrounding both of his nipples, five around each, and one on his hip, added as an afterthought, a signature.

“That wasn't so hard, was it? Now be a good boy and behave. I've wanted to see that wide mouth of yours stretched ‘round my dick since I first saw you.”

Sam’s missed a couple of minutes there, because when he opens his eyes, he’s treated to the sight of the Comedian’s crotch almost in his face. And he may be half-delirious with pain, but that’s definitely a hard, big cock nudging against his chin.

“Open up, boy,” the Comedian tells him, and there’s nothing more to it. Sam is empty; he’s done everything he can; no one’s coming for him. With the gun tapping against his temple again and a fist in his hair keeping him still, he opens his mouth.

The Comedian lets out a satisfied sigh as his cock sinks into the heat of Sam’s mouth, and Christ, he is huge. Sam’s gagging already, and he has the fleeting thought that it’s not supposed to be like this, because why would anybody do this willingly? And it gets worse, because the Comedian thrusts all the way in, down his throat, and stays there.

Sam pants through his nose, pressed into coarse pubic hair. He tries to think of anything else, but he can still smell the Comedian, that smell isn't ever going to leave him, and it brings him down, keeps him grounded here. On some level he knows that he’s got to control his gag reflex, because vomiting now would choke him, but he doesn't have control over anything anymore. He’s reduced to nothing more than a hole to be fucked and used. And the Comedian proceeds to do just that.

Sam can’t breathe as his mouth is fucked brutally, the strain of keeping his teeth from clamping shut enormous, his limbs becoming lax from the lack of oxygen. He welcomes the numbness. A new shock of sensation hits the back of his throat as the Comedian’s dick twitches and he comes with a grunt, riding his orgasm out with both of his hands fisted in Sam’s hair.

When he at last pulls out, Sam swallows compulsively and falls on his side in a fit of coughing, splatters of come landing on the floor. He gulps air in great, heaving breaths. So much for numbness; his throat and lungs are on fire, he is on fire. Burn-marks and lacerations and bruises turning blue; he is burning, all of him – why won’t the Comedian just let him burn to ashes – scatter the ashes, piss on them, as long as it ends this –

The Comedian forces his head up and looks at his bruised face, filthy with blood and sweat and come.

“Open your eyes,” he says. Sam’s past fear, but he can’t think of any reason not to obey, can’t think of anything at all.

His eyelashes are glued together with dried tears and it’s painful to open his eyes. He squints at the Comedian, brown eyes unfocused. He sees a smile, but he’s forgotten the joke.

“You got a little something at the corner of your mouth,” the Comedian tells him. He presses the cigar to the corner of Sam’s mouth almost tenderly, and Sam doesn't flinch. The cigar goes out with a hiss as it lands on a smear of come. Sam remembers then.

“Who’s the sick fuck now?” he rasps, voice used and horrible.

The Comedian winks at him.

“That’s the grandest joke of all.”

Of course, thinks Sam. That makes perfect sense.

Climax.

Applause.

Gunshot.

He hears a heavy thud, the sound of boots on concrete, shouting, but it’s all very far away. Someone’s shaking him, and his head lolls back, hits the floor.

The next thing he knows, he’s being carried, wrapped up in a leather jacket. Sam presses his face into the lining and inhales as deeply as he can.

Dean.

_Standing ovation_ , Sam wants to whisper, but he’s fading fast, blackness crashing down on him.

It’s all right. His brother’s here. He can finally let go.


End file.
